the gun, and with a roar that shakes the ship, the
great gun is fired.

[Illustration: OUR POST-OFFICE BOX.]

SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA.

I am twelve years old, and go to the Lincoln School. It is so
called because it has a statue of Abraham Lincoln in front of it.
It was built in 1864, has over twelve hundred pupils enrolled, and
I think it is the best school in the city. I have been making vases
out of Farallon eggs to send East to my cousins. The eggs come from
the Farallon Islands, twenty-one miles outside of the Golden Gate.
They are of a blue color, and have marks on them that look like
hieroglyphics. The birds that lay them are a species of gull. I was
born in San Francisco, and have lived here most of my life. Four
years I spent up in the mountains on a farm, or ranch, as they call
it here.

CHARLES W. S.

Farallon, the name of these islands near the entrance to San Francisco
Bay, is a Spanish word signifying a small pointed islet in the ocean.
The islands, of which there are six, are so called because they consist
of rugged towering peaks of granite! A more desolate place could not
well be imagined. There is nearly always a fierce wind blowing, and the
waves dash wildly into the numerous spouting caves along the rocky
coast. There is a light-house here three hundred and sixty feet above
the sea, and its keepers are the only human inhabitants of the desolate
sea-bound rock; but thousands of sea-lions congregate upon the cliffs,
and vast numbers of gulls and wild rabbits make their home there. During
the egging season men visit the islands, and gather thousands of eggs
for the San Francisco market. A very interesting account of these
islands, is given in Mr. Nordhoff's book on _Northern California,
Oregon, and the Sandwich Islands_.

* * * * *

FORT ASSINIBOINE, MONTANA TERRITORY.

I am always glad to see YOUNG PEOPLE come with papa's mail. Out
here in the wilderness we do not often see nice papers; but then we
see what city people never see--plenty of Indians. Many of them are
very poor, and so hungry that they pick bread and scraps of meat
out of the swill barrels to eat--old stuff that the soldiers have
thrown away. I think people should send the poor Indians something
to eat. I send you a picture of some Indians as they look hunting
for food this cold day. I am